


9 Crimes

by wordsareleftbehind (froggydarren)



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Angst and Feels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/froggydarren/pseuds/wordsareleftbehind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by <a href="http://froggydarren.tumblr.com/post/71540414584">this post</a>, title from Damien Rice’s 9 Crimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	9 Crimes

It wasn’t Darren who pulled the plug. He wasn’t the one to walk away, not really. Chris wasn’t the one to deliver the final blow either. They linked their hands, put them on the switch together and then, like that, with hands still clasped together, listened as the regular beeps slowed until they faded into silence. It didn’t take much longer for the quiet to drive a wedge between them, to split their hands and push them apart. Neither of them walked away from the other, they simply drifted in opposite directions.

1\. _do you still love me? please call me back_.

The first message was simple as that, whispered into the voicemail in the middle of the night, phone unanswered, caller unknown since the names had been erased. Darren was the one who caved, calling from across the country for no reason but to hear the mechanical and professional tone of Chris’ voice. Just that was enough to send a shiver down his spine, the familiarity of the words he heard a million times before. He remembered the time when it was different, when he’d jokingly recorded himself on the voicemail. It wasn’t surprising that it was back to the cool, measured, stark “you’ve reached Chris Colfer, please leave a message” of days before _them_.

It was the message Chris didn’t listen to. If anyone asked, he wouldn’t even mention it happened. When the phone rang, he was wide awake, though, heard the words without having to _listen_ to the message. For a second, his fingers shook with the urge to _pick up, pick up you idiot_. He didn’t, though, burying his head into the pillow and breathing shallowly into the scent of raspberry that still lingered.

2. **i found your shirt in my closet. it still smells like you. so do my bedsheets**.

Message two was left on Darren’s old phone, the one he never used anymore, in Joey’s house. It was a deliberate move on Chris’ part, calculated so that the words wouldn’t reach the recipient. He needed to tell someone and others would _not_ understand. They wouldn’t get why he was tracing over the letters on the faded blue shirt, fingertips stuttering over the first two words of “I Do My Own Stunts”. It smelled like rehearsal, like hours spent repeating the same moves over and over, like laughter and the thuds of falling down in exhaustion. And somewhere below that, there was a layer of raspberry.

It was the place Darren went hiding, ultimately. Trying to go back to the start, to simpler days, to muffled giggles and hushed whispers as they’d tried to not wake up the roommates. The simplicity of it burned at the back of his throat, roughened by the salt in tears he swallowed. He didn’t pick up, though, somehow understanding why it was that phone the message was being left on. Instead, he snuggled deeper under the comforter that had once been left behind, the lingering scent of rain making him dizzy.

3\. _last night, i woke up at 2 am and wrote in my journal the first thing that came into my head. i wrote that you are my phantom limb._

There were expectations on him, now that the show was over. Deadlines, contracts, promises of a full album of songs that needed to be polished. He had plenty, from earlier days, but there was one missing to fill the list and he had people breathing down his neck to write it. Inspiration had left him, though, along with sleep and all words. Until one night, when he managed to drift off into a restless nap, only to wake up with darkness still everywhere, mutters of the ache of _missing_ turning into a wistful melody making his brain spin. The sun was coming up when the last note made it onto paper, longing put into lyrics and his hand on the phone, whispering after the beep.

Chris wanted to hear it, the moment his ears caught the tones of a piano in the background, almost overshadowing the sting that was left by the familiar voice. It was new, he realized immediately, and would be the only one, the first one in a long time that someone else would hear before him. He felt empty, but still didn’t reach out to play the message over, because the blood was still seeping out of the gash across his heart. Every note he did catch was a grain of salt into the wound, making him wonder if it would ever heal.

4\. **someone told me i looked pretty today but all i could think about was what you were doing** _._

For the last time, the show’s ending was highlighted and they were all there to say their goodbyes. One last photoshoot, one last nomination, one last appearance before _the end_. With the amount of people, the absence of one was all the more noticeable. Chris’ heart stuttered at compliments and his responding words faltered all night until it became too much. Excuses were made, explanations hollow and implausible, but no one else batted an eyelid. The music was loud when he mumbled into the phone, breathing hitching and the sound of his voice strange to his ears.

Hiding was the truth. That was what Darren was doing that night, locked behind the closed doors of a recording studio, playing the one song that still haunted him since it invaded his mind. Making it perfect, repeating note after note and never once wondering if any of them needed changing. He could barely hear the words in the message, the latest popular song, one that made him think they’d have recorded had the show been on air still, roaring in the background. He’d wanted to go but he didn’t, knowing everyone else had confirmed. So he played the guitar until his fingers bleed, until the pain was physical and stopped him from thinking for a while.

5. _i scrubbed my skin until it turned pink because i can’t fucking stand how i still feel your lips. i haven’t left the house in days._

He had places to be, had things to do where he needed to look human, but all he wanted to do was to bury himself under blankets and revel in the whispering memories of touches that never left. With them on his mind, there was no way he could make it through being the poster child they needed him to be. Eventually, he was given an ultimatum that left him with no other option but to try. Then, wrapped in only a tower, drops falling from the curls he almost ripped out when the memory of someone else’s hands in it washed over him along with the cold water, he reached for his phone. The second call, after the quiet one drowned in tears, was one that cancelled his plans for the day.

Chris had turned the TV for the first time that day. He’d been told not to, which only spurred him on, wondering if _seeing_ would heal him or make the pain worse. The screen betrayed him and didn’t give him the answer he was looking for as other, unfamiliar faces appeared instead of the one he was looking for. There was an answer in his phone, when he finally listened to the message, the sound of falling water in the background. He tried to ignore the quiet sobs he heard, until he realized he was echoing them with his own.

6\. **drinking won’t erase the memories. i’ve tried.**

Tequila used to be the answer for a long time, transporting him into a land of dreams and incoherent rambles of royalty and fun. It worked, until halfway through the bottle, when he remembered the one person who had listened, the one who shared his love for the place that the golden drink had brought him to every time. Until he remembered the song that was written for him there, heard it even through the pounding of the bass line of whatever music was playing around him. His words were slurred as he spoke them into the phone, yelling out the last ones when the phone was yanked out of his hands.

A photo album in his hand, one he never shared with anyone, and a six pack on the table in front of him was his company when the call came in. Darren shook at the timing, at how they both had the same idea, the same method of trying to forget. Despite the advice on the voicemail, he tried also, that night and the following ones over and over, until the pages of the album were worn and ripped in places, the photos remaining as they were.

7\. _i looked in the mirror and couldn’t find myself. i miss who i was before you._

In the days before everything happened, Darren had no need to hide, nor had he ever the desire to do so. But then, because of the situations that arose, he knew he changed. Once he finally emerged from his hiding place, in the familiar-looking chair and getting his appearance fixed up to something presentable, his mind flashed with an image of a mass of curls, of a guitar in his hands and a worn T-shirt under a comfortable hoodie. Phone to his ear, he spoke the words and wondered if that was the reason, if the changes were what made him lose everything.

Like a vampire, Chris avoided mirrors himself. He used to be someone else, before. Someone who thought less and jumped at chances more, someone who didn’t calculate his every move like the person he knew he’d see in his reflection. There was more than one moment, before and after that message when he wondered if he could go back to that one day. But there was no one to ask.

8\. **everything in the box belongs to you. i don’t need it anymore.**

The walk through the house should have been cleansing, helpful, as Chris picked up T-shirts strewn everywhere, including the one that Brian had commandeered for his bed. Guitar strings tucked in corners, picks stuck between books and mattresses, that one set of mugs with the Golden Gate bridge across it. He fully intended to call for a courier once he left the voicemail, not even caring about privacy anymore. Until he noticed the one T-shirt stretched over his torso, the letters worn, the blue faded, the scent that was once the reason for him to wear it no longer there.

Darren wondered about the box for days. There wasn’t one on his doorstep, none where he was still staying, safely tucked away alone for most of the time. He could’ve asked if someone intercepted it, but he didn’t want anyone to know. They’d wonder how he knew, what made him think to ask. The voicemail was short, quiet, with nothing in the background, no explanation for when or how. But there was no box.

9\. _my mother called and asked how i was doing. i said i went out to the store and bought milk. she told me she was proud of me. i hope you are too._

What Darren didn’t say, his voice too weak after the amount of words he managed to get out, was that he went out to buy everything. That he ran out of supplies altogether and tried to brave the world to avoid starvation. And darkness. What he didn’t say was that he walked into the store and had the milk in his hand when his eyes fell on a six pack of Diet Coke. What he didn’t say was that he fought tears until he was in his car with the doors locked and his head against the steering wheel. What he didn’t say was that his Mom asked about both of them and he didn’t know how to explain. What he didn’t say was that he set out to drive to San Francisco and then turned around at the first road sign that spelled out _Fresno_.

He drove, across town and to the first door only to find it unanswered, then to the next, pounding down on the wood and then cringing at the disgruntled face behind it. He drove for hours only to be told that it was the wrong direction, then he drove back again, hoping he was right. Hoping, for the first time in what felt like forever, hoping and breathing slowly as he pulled up at the place where it started, where they began. He was hoping when he tenderly rapped his knuckles against the door. He was hoping when he heard noises behind it, hoping when it creaked open. Hoping when he came face to face with the one person he needed to see.

10.

“I’ve always been proud,” rolled out of Chris’ mouth without explanation, without preamble or warning, “And I couldn’t, I can’t let go. I can’t pack everything up and forget. I’m not _me_ without you.”

“No more voicemails,” Darren whispered with a broken voice into the silence that washed over them when Chris paused, “No more…”

Tears tinged the kiss that their lips met in, but neither of them cared, the salty taste a reminder that it was real, that they were back. Both of them heard the beeps as the steady rhythm resumed, each of them sounding more and more like the beat of their hearts, thudding at the same time, once, then twice, then with a steady ‘boom, boom’, blood flowing across their bodies and echoing _home_ into their minds. 


End file.
